Tag: absurd

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.

“Ha!”

It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.

Unravelling the fraud, citizens wanted to lynch Boris K. on the spot, but an old man from the crowd chuckled uncovering his golden tooth, a local Zarathustra, a village seer.

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“Spare his life. He is great in telling. I must hear more!

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“It’s true – shouted grandma across the street -” His stories are breathtaking. I’m kind of used to them already”

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Citizens gathered around Boris, approaching to embrace him … The first, second, third, all the way to the thousand and one.

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That’s when all said in unison:

„Boris K. we will spare your life on condition that you continue spinning a good yarn! And you will spend eternity telling us those beautiful stories of yours. And if anyone between us kicks the bucket, there will always be somebody else wiling to listen, young, pink cheeks and ready. But the moment you stop telling tales, we will let you die two months later!“

“Now are you accepting the challenge or are you going yellow, Boris K, our fellow citizen?“

BKdix1.6 Since the very idea of such a torturous fate was detestable to Boris, his entire body went numb. He offered his arguments about the inspiration for most of his tales, in philosophical, psychological, and sociological terms, mainly based on events that happened in his life.

“And my life will be over soon”, quoting passages of famous people, like dr. Nietzsche – dearly departed, to support that conclusion.

“None of us was. It’s kind of a push and pull. You are becoming one. And once it happened to you, you are part of this phenomenon!“. They gave him a rough look, the lines under their eyes.

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Boris K. got himself thinking about how he was supposed to run as fast as he can, just like a little Chariots of Fire.

“Is this what you are looking for?” Bimbo and Jimbo, dumbest citizens in Phenomenopublic, strengthened in the gym, were sitting in Boris’ time machine, raving at the crowd “The time machine is ours. Firing up the barbecue!”

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Then, all of a sudden, a single shot was heard.

“Calm those brutes!l speak with the voice of the Prophets! – Marinella Felazionini was the madam President of Blind Nuns Theocratic Party.

Bimbo and Jimbo put their heads down. The prophet expressed the awe he felt:

“What an exceptional creature, madam.”

“Though not in habit, sir” – sudden silence fell over those gathered in front of the government building where wanna – be Boris’ memorial service was scheduled to be held.

Her reverence holstered her pistol at the scene.

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“… and what happened with nana Hurricana? Did she make it out of the red hot chimney?„Will Philodendrona the Third, the great-granddaughter of the ancient queen Margaret the Second, will get married to Boris K?, – The frenzied chatter resonates across the Republic -They were an ancient guild, a shield-maiden Party, three starlets per one drag queen.

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Boris K. realized that there was no alternative but to tell tales till hell froze over.

“Time to go”, Boris K. hopped in the backseat of his time machine, heading over the world-famous novelists he admired, with the Saint Marinela ‘s blessing.

” But how can I achieve the same artistry in storytelling? Boris K. asked himself.

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Boris K in Russia – Tolstoy

That was the moment when Boris K. first met, face to face the gentleman I am about to introduce to you.

In a peasant shirt and boots and a beard as long as the characters fromWar and Peace.

Tolstoy was in his estate in Yasnaya Polyana finishing the last chapter fromThe Death of Ivan Ilych.

“Ah, gerasim!”, Tolstoy sighed.

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Boris K snuck up behind him, moving like a cat, leaned over his shoulder, sneaking into the great writer’s manuscript, going down into lower and lower layers of the finale! – The last page, the last shot. -there’s something in there that caught his attention. A word for which Boris K. yearned was – UNINTERRUPTEDLY.

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It has been accomplished – Tolstoy wrote down.

“Then, did he die, Ivan Ilych.?”

“He.. he’s out cold now” –Tolstoy replied, with an absent tone of voice.

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Suddenly, a master of realistic fiction, a world-renown for his wisdom, sprang to his feet abruptly as a strolling cat that suddenly leaps away when it spots a dog, he threw himself on his knees, weeping, pale, in a mortal dread:

“Ivan Ilych., forgive me. Ivanushka, What you saw, no one amongst the living soul has ever seen! What you have been, no one has ever.. been!

I’m going into a monastery to find Father Abbot! I’ll tell him: Show me the holy relics of my poor servant, in hoping to be exhumed and blessed, Ivan Ilych. You’ll be in the crypt. But it was an accident…!”

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Suddenly, Tolstoy froze – “Wait, you are not my servant. You are… moustachioed.. MAN! Ivan won’t acknowledge his moustache, May his soul rests in peace!”

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My story can’ t end! It has to go on forever. It has to be forever.”

And to this Boris K added:

„If that ever happened, the Citizens would have me killed ” Boris K wailed, telling Tolstoy what happened from the beginning, vigourously.

„The end – dixit Boris K– – that, Tolstoy, That can never happen!”

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After ascertaining, for reasons best known to himself, that it’s not about St. Petersburg middle-class citizens, Tolstoy suggested a little walking in the park, and in appreciation, he nodded and said:

“Then you should definitely point out that there is no time in space. Time does not exist in the unconscious. Along with our watches, because time does not exist in this room, in this city, in this story. There is no such thing as time”, Tolstoy scratched his head, he seemed confused and upset. – “In this way, our hero is capable of dying from some mysterious unknown plagues thousandth pages so far”. – Tolstoy stopped – “Boris K, that’s all I could think about.”

Boris K in Russia – Chekhov

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„None, then, I’ll visit Chekhov. If anybody can help me, he can!”

Boris К. met Chekhov in Sorin’s estate, suffering from a heavy case of ” Scribe’s Fever, his eyes as if of fire, he’s writing something down, making birdcalls with seagulls.

Boris K. told him all about his nervous breakdowns, all about good and evil, adding to the continuing story of how the Earth was made on Hell. In the end, he told him all about his great matter.

“Are you blackmailing me to be your ghostwriter?”, – Chekhov was suspicious.

“Why this libel?”

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The greatest writer of short fiction in history grimaces at Boris’ face.

” I fear overzealous people. I was imagining a comedy, which finished in tragedy. Never mind, never mind. So, anyway, I’ ve seen you creeping about the wardrobe seeing me in female dress at “Seagulls” premiere. At the very end of her acting career, the leading lady lost her voice. .And I jumped in like a goddamn scout.. , turning her awkward soprano into full warm tenor… – Chekhov shrieked, pointing his finger to Boris K. – Did you take that picture while I was trying her dresses?”

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Boris K. sighed, took the photograph out of his overall’s pocket,..

“I would like to have my photos back!”

“It’s a sorrowful day at the thought of parting with this famous dress!”, Boris K. admitted.

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Chekhov grabbed his photo right out of Boris’ hands, stuffed it into his pocket. He was just relieved.

“Standing.. sitting there like Honest John.” – Chekhov stated his position unsmilingly, his arms folded.

In Court 21, the defendants entered one after the other, accompanied by prosecutors, witnesses, defence attorneys. While the judge, the scorer, and the jury followed them, the five defendants sat on chairs, and one of them was a timely and powerfully built woman. In all cases, of all the chairs they sit on the weakest and the slimiest. And as she sat down, so she fell, one second, second, third, fourth while the bearded prosecutor with fedora hat cross-examined her, but under no circumstances to finally fall, and so, the moment she was falling and falling, the prosecutor ran up hastened forward, picking her up, while she kicked him as falling down, her black large head with two distressing disturbed eyes, alternately reappeared and disappeared. Just a minute ago badmouthing her, the Prosecutor rolled up his sleeves, a lisping voice, worried, but helpless, he went round and round… and spinning and spinning… and dancing and flying. : “Ma’am, are you okay, help ma’am help!” And she didn’t hear it all because she kept falling and falling, a curvy line, like a piece of the divider, like the trash can got knocked over, and the stuff fell out of her.
When she finally fell, after five minutes, the Judge ordered the courtroom to be emptied, and he and the scorer looked at each other silently, and then the Judge sat back in his chair and laughed so long that the whole Courtroom echoed.
The judge was laughing like hell.in an empty courtroom when all of a sudden the rest of the chair broke and the judge and the scorer and the jury fell down, too, not long after the big lady departure.

All pads report
made the deal with the
the depths of the overhanging vortex
the symbolism of water is completely swallowed

And skilfully
drawing attention to the message of peace
It is
safe
at least until the water gurgled
you swayed while you were shining in infinity
infinitely
moving from water
then and now
It’s the same story that depends on how I do not know how

Start dying, my dear!
start dying
you’ re not going to cry, are you?
weep and stand back
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre, It’s the Sun and his name is Hellion.

2
You’re trapped, got frozen, grow rusty, as iron.
surrounded by other little corpses
so gentle
gentle angels
your life became about extinguished eyes,
light of death in devouring mouth
always sink down evil and heavy
a cursed figment.
And now… now mirrors have become very sensitive.

3

All my life I’ve been brutalized
most victim of domestic violence if you must know
my injurious torment stretch out to fullest pitch
All that is left is ashes, a trembling hand, a creature
lightning a candle, it’s artificial light, it’ s like a skin replacement

at the point of breaking.
I snap myself out of the dream
the creepy wake-up feeling
as is known to all Sleeping Beauties
It is reality, illusory, dark, terrible thing
though.. nothing but a distraction.

The sun is bringing one more misleading day
through and through venerable Saint
spewing hopes and epics for significance of living

This is deceit produced by daylight
we’ve given up dying
in the arms of the slow death of life, again,
no more than
a striking caress of maladjusted mind, a dead apostles
a drama fragment, the driving force, strings, melodies…
We are devils of our own blood
Infected.Holy kunt. You were the Bringer of Sun!You!
There are thousands of deities that can ensure respectable name for
a brute.
but only one hellion that bringeth good tidings,

too much for a man

who is rising in my verses

built into eye, buried fingers and many feet underground

4

What was that eerie sound I hear, is it the rattle and hum of innocent wind, kind and insane?
What else could it be?

pervasively
violent
flowing
spurting

5

No, it won’ t take long
be good, my dear
What can you do?
C’est la Guerre
C’est la Guerre
C’est la… Guerre

I am ripping… reptile meat.
(of my body…)
Let Eagles keep their beaks sharp
in their lazy armchair…
I think Sisyphus is being watched,
discreetly
Long after I have been forgotten
I am going into oblivion
into my sleep, to bed, to bed of satin
tucked away somewhere,
out of my mind

The master of of the short story, Leila Samarrai is both published and
award-winning young author. She loves to write, she lives for the
literature, she dreams about having her own manager, like
American writers. Inspired by the Monty Python, by Chaplin, by
everyday situations in our country, she creates sharp, funny,
satirical stories, full of liberating rage and bitterness. Dive into
her world, for a moment…

What is the task of the writer?

The task of the writer is to write well and that’s all. It seems to me
that this is the striking thesis of Joseph Brodsky.

Why do you write?

For pleasure, and because I believe that I have something to say…

Where do you get your ideas?

Is simply, when I hit the table with my fist, a genie from the magic
lamp appears, bowing down to me, saying: “I beg your pardon,
my Magistra Ludi” Then I express my desire which is, immediately,
fulfilled.

What is a good poetry/art and how would you define a poetic skill?

Art is a game. Poetry is a game. At the end of the day, either
you know how to play or not…

What is a good writer to you?

A good writer is the one who is not afraid to speak up; the one who
dictates the art of the written word. A writer who only scribbles
in silence collecting praises is nothing but an idle reader. He to
whom the written word is flowing through the wounds in the
world descending to the paper, he does not hesitate to give either
criticism or praise. It is his aspiration.

What is the best literature and the purpose of art?

The survival of the human race.

Where did you get the idea to write Boris K (“Everest media”, Belgrade, 2013)?

In the age of absurd events in Serbia, which go against common
sense, it was not difficult to come up with the idea to write an
absurd satire which would reflect the reality in the witch’s “old
woman Valentina” mirror . Pythonesque burlesque in conjunction
with Kafkaesque atmosphere, in the spirit of Monty Python and
perhaps Chaplin or SF passenger through space and time, are just
some of the references that build the atmosphere. Why
Kafkaesque? Because Boris K. in spite of his Johnny Bravo
powers and abilities is just plain, small, but not so common man,
milled by the wheel of the kafkaesque torture machine “in the
penal colony” – which grinds and bites, in a sophisticated way, but
it… kills … Johnny Bravo effect, the muscles of superhero are
part of the comedy of the absurd. The hyperbole that I like to use,
sometimes to the extreme, is part of the comedy and the comedy,
so to speak, becomes even more comical.

Can we expect a continuation of The Adventures Of Boris K?

Yes, you can. Ideas ideas everywhere.. (I share Plato’s thought), Boris K. is not only the satire – short story hero, he is an omnipresent avatar representing disruptive, although an imaginative cosmopolitan. He deserves the best assembled fable, the beginning, the plot, my favorite peripetia and spicy denouement with a touch of bitter irony at the expense of society.

What are you currently doing?

Like a sculptor, I am chiseling a novel made up of interwoven narratives, fighting for each sentence. This work does not require precision in terms of the well formed plot. It is itself a sleepwalker fantasy in which the vigilant one walks in the dream. It is surreal, like moonwalking…
The title is “The Sleeping Matilde”. It has something magical in it, for me… It follows my narrative sensibility focused not only to action but on shading of complex characters in novel. It has the characteristics of magical realism and’m good at it and I am endlessly enjoying in my work.

Tips to the younger writers?

Go not by the beaten paths. Break the patterns and remember that Kafka, who was the genius, was very unsure of himself. He thought he did not know to write, which he covered up by his famous hysterical laughter when urged to read aloud his works to his friends… Also, he wrote late into the night. This advice does not apply to you if you’re an early riser 🙂